I was going to call it Marrow.
It was going to be a French Bistro. You know, The kind with the beat up butcher block table tops. Heavy pewter flatware. Mismatched glassware. Menu that changes pretty much every day written on a chalk wall over the dimly lit bar. It was going to seat about 35. Any more than that and it starts to feel less intimate, too impersonal. The tables would have real pepper grinders on them. None of that powdered shit. I hadn’t decided what to do about salt. I personally prefer kosher, but about the time I left the culinary world, grinding salt was coming into vogue. Meh. Salt is salt. I like the look of a salt crock. Rather old world.
The kitchen was going to be open concept so people could gather around to watch the huge slabs of braised beef being rotated out of the open brick oven. Wood heat baby. Its the only way to make osso bucco.
|Not even close...but I like the wall!|
It would have a slate patio where people could come and have a bowl of french onion soup, share a bottle of wine or sit back and read a book with a cooling cup coffee.
I was going to make the best braised meats this side of the Atlantic. I was going to figure out how to make a croissant without needing to import water from Paris. I was going to get people to love the idea of eating small portions, and Enjoying the flavors, tasting the layers of of the 19 hours of braising that went into that piece of beef on your plate. Savoring the days and days of reduction and balance that goes into a well made stock.
It was going to be magnificent.
I unfortunately did not win the lottery.
Maybe not my best financial plan...